Chapter Text
Chapter I: Bloody Stranger
The city of London was a constant nocturnal painting — lights vibrating through the fog, damp concrete, and the muffled sound of footsteps coming and going like held breaths. To Lando Norris, it was his empire. His territory. Its alleys hid more than trash and rats — they hid secrets, bodies, deals, and lies.
And he ruled over all of it.
Dressed in a tailored black suit, with a coat that swayed with every firm step, he stepped out of his Maserati to walk the final stretch toward the Italian restaurant where a meeting awaited him. A new arms supplier wanted in. They always do. And Lando always decides who lives and who disappears.
But it wasn’t the deal that stopped him.
It was him.
Across the street, under the flickering light of a nearly burnt-out lamppost, stood a patrol car. And next to it, a cop. Not just any cop.
He had short, wind-ruffled brown hair, fair skin tinged pink from the cold. His posture was impeccable, as if ready to act at any moment. But what caught Lando’s attention wasn’t just his appearance — it was his gaze.
Oscar Piastri looked at the world like he was decoding it. Like he was judging it. And when their eyes met, even for a brief second, Lando’s stomach flipped. Not from fear. But from... curiosity? Obsession?
The officer didn’t recognize him, of course. To the world, Lando was the CEO of Norris Enterprises, an occasional philanthropist, the eccentric heir to a legitimate fortune.
But to the underworld...
He was hell itself in a suit, smiling.
He crossed the street, even though there was no need. He wanted to get closer. Hear his voice. See if his presence was as solid as his eyes suggested. And as he passed the patrol car, Oscar lifted his gaze with a brief, polite nod.
— Good evening.
Lando replied with a short smile, restrained but sly.
It was enough. The obsession was born right there. It grew silently. Spread with every piece of information his network uncovered about the promising cop. Son of immigrants. Clean record. Focused. Solitary. Unyielding.
A challenge.
Days later — in the alleys of Shoreditch
Pain came in waves. Hot, pulsing. Lando slid down a wall of damp bricks, blood running between his fingers as he pressed against the wound on his left side.
The last meeting had been a setup.
Leonardo Russo, one of the Italian mafia heirs trying to infiltrate London, had provoked him too far. Sharp words, veiled insults… and a knife under the table. But Lando was ready. He always was.
The problem had been the escape.
In the shootout with Russo’s men, a bullet struck him while he was already fleeing through a side corridor of the restaurant. A clean shot. Direct. Lucky it wasn’t to the chest.
Unlucky that it hurt like hell.
— Son of a bitch... — he hissed through clenched teeth, trying to stay conscious.
He couldn’t call anyone. Not there. Not now. His security was minutes away. And for the first time in years, he was vulnerable.
Funny.
It was in the same neighborhood where he had first seen Oscar.
Fate had a cruel sense of humor. And maybe, just maybe, it was about to laugh again.
Because amid the pain and the pounding in his ears, he heard footsteps approaching. Firm. Determined.
And a voice.
A voice he would recognize even in his most violent dreams.
— Anyone there?
Oscar.
Of course it would be him.
Lando tried to smile, but the pain flared like an explosion.
Perfect, he thought, eyes half closing.
The final piece of my board just stepped into the game.
— Anyone there? — the voice echoed down the narrow alley, muffled by the distant hum of traffic and the soft patter of London rain.
Lando heard it, but didn’t answer right away. Blood still slipped between his fingers, soaking the hem of his shirt and blazer, now more burden than protection. The pain throbbed in brutal waves, but it was the sound of that voice that kept him conscious.
Oscar Piastri appeared in view like a ray of light in the dark.
In uniform, his hand already resting near the holstered weapon at his waist, his eyes scanning the alley. And when they landed on the slumped silhouette, Lando saw the exact moment worry overtook protocol. Oscar rushed to him, kneeling without hesitation.
— Shit… are you conscious? — he asked, pressing his fingers to Lando’s neck for a pulse. — You’ve been shot?
Lando groaned faintly, allowing himself to seem weaker than he was. Part performance. Part real.
— Mugging... — he rasped. — Took my wallet, shot me and ran...
Oscar frowned, his dark eyes assessing the wound with clinical precision.
— You’ll need medical help. Closest hospital is St. Thomas, I’m calling an ambulance.
— No. — Lando’s voice came out firmer than expected, despite the pain. — No hospital. Please.
Oscar hesitated, looking at him with a mix of doubt and instinct. He had learned to trust his gut, and something about this man… something didn’t sit right. It wasn’t just the expensive suit or the way he masked his pain — it was the way he looked at him.
Calm.
Calculated.
Cold, despite the blood.
— You know that makes no sense, right? — Oscar said, pulling off his jacket and placing it over Lando’s shoulders. — If it’s not a hospital, you’ll be dead before sunrise.
— I’ve got people… I can pay for a private doctor. I just need time. — Lando met his gaze, letting a sliver of vulnerability show. — I just need you to get me out of here.
Oscar let out an irritated sigh, raking a hand through his hair. He shouldn’t. It went against protocol. Against reason. But there was something in the way that man — wounded, mysterious, unknown — spoke, that made him hesitate.
— Fine. — he growled finally. — But if you die in my passenger seat, I’m dumping you in the Thames.
Lando laughed, even as pain arched his back in protest.
Oscar helped him up with firm hands, supporting the tall, trembling body against his own. The patrol car was only a few meters away. It had tissues, gauze, a basic first-aid kit — but what surprised Lando most was the almost delicate care with which Oscar held him. Strong, but not aggressive. Precise, but human.
When he laid him carefully in the back seat, Oscar buckled the seatbelt and shut the door with a firm click.
Lando leaned his head against the window, breath uneven, eyelids heavy.
But it didn’t matter.
He was in Oscar Piastri’s car.
Closer than he ever imagined.
And everything was beginning to fall into place.
----
Oscar Piastri lived in a modest apartment on the second floor of an old building in Camden. Nothing excessive. Just the essentials: a dark leather couch, a bookshelf filled with technical manuals, framed family photos with understated borders, and a constant sense of order — as if every object had its place and any deviation was a silent violation.
Lando noticed all of that as he was carried, with some difficulty, to the small couch in the living room. His body felt heavier than usual — and not just because of the lodged bullet. Exhaustion, mixed with the heat of Oscar’s close presence, made him float in a strange haze.
— Stay still. Don’t even think about passing out now, — Oscar said, kneeling beside the couch as he opened the first aid kit. His eyes were tense but steady. Hands skilled, accustomed to pressure.
— Do you always bring bleeding strangers into your home? — Lando murmured with a weak smile.
— No. — Oscar dampened a cloth with antiseptic. — You’re the first. And I’m already starting to regret it.
Lando let out a hoarse sound, almost a laugh. Oscar carefully lifted his shirt, revealing the bruised flesh around the wound.
The hole was clean, but deep. The bullet likely hadn’t gone through.
— You’re going to need a real doctor after this. All I can do is stop the bleeding and keep you awake.
— You seem to know what you’re doing. — Lando locked eyes with him. — Steady hands. Ever considered swapping the badge for a scalpel?
— I’ve thought about leaving the country and never dealing with cocky bastards again, if that counts.
Oscar pressed the gauze to the wound, making Lando gasp and shut his eyes tight. The pain stole his words for a moment, but when he opened them again, he found Oscar watching him with an unreadable expression.
— Any numbness in your legs? Nausea? Blurred vision? — Oscar asked, slipping into his careful-police mode.
— Just dizzy… and maybe a little enchanted by you. — Lando let it slip, quiet but audible.
Oscar froze for a second. It wasn’t the kind of thing you expect to hear from a gunshot victim — especially not from a man with a cynical smile and eyes as dark as Lando’s.
— I think you’re delirious, — he replied, getting back to the dressing. But there was something in his eyes. A brief flicker, a second longer on Lando’s lips. A spark he tried to hide.
— If I told you who I really am… would you let me bleed out right here? — Lando suddenly asked, his voice lower.
Oscar didn’t answer immediately. He wrapped the gauze with precision and tied it tightly around Lando’s waist, finishing the makeshift bandage. Only then did he meet his eyes.
— I’m no judge. Or executioner. Not yet, at least.
— But you’re a cop. You swore to protect the good… and arrest the bad.
— And you? What side are you on?
Lando smiled. Slow. Wicked.
— Maybe somewhere in the middle. Or maybe… on the side you’ll end up choosing, Oscar.
The way he said his name, with such intimacy, sent a chill down Oscar’s spine.
He had never told him his name.
And in that instant, Oscar realized:
This man knew exactly who he was.
Oscar kept staring at Lando as if trying to dissect him piece by piece — as if every sentence hid a trap. But there was something in that man’s eyes that defied his logic and police instincts.
— You know my name, — Oscar finally said in a low voice. — But I still don’t know yours.
— You will. When the time is right, — Lando answered, voice hoarse, almost a whisper. — But first… I need a favor. A small one.
Oscar raised an eyebrow, still frowning with suspicion.
— You’re bleeding. This isn’t the time for games.
Lando tilted his head slightly, and despite the sweat on his forehead and his pale complexion, he still held that infuriating natural charm.
— This isn’t a game, Oscar. — He extended his hand with difficulty, touching the officer’s wrist. — I need you to take the bullet out. Now.
Oscar froze for a moment.
— You said you had a private doctor.
— I do. But if we wait until he gets here, I might lose more blood than I should. And you… well, you don’t want a corpse on your couch, do you?
Oscar looked away for a second, exhaling deeply.
He knew how to do it. He had training. Extreme situations demanded a cold head.
But what made him tense wasn’t the bullet. It was the man.
And that soft touch on his wrist… as if Lando had more control over the situation than he should.
— You sure you want me to do this? No anesthesia?
— I trust you, — Lando said, wearing that signature half-smile. — Or at least what you’re capable of.
Oscar cursed under his breath, stood up, and headed to the kitchen cabinet. He returned with a small bottle of vodka — the closest thing to anesthesia he had — some tweezers, and an improvised sterilized knife.
— Don’t move. This is going to hurt like hell.
— You with that commanding voice is already a kind of torture, — Lando teased, his eyes still gleaming even through the pain. — Do it, officer.
Oscar didn’t smile. But his hands were steady.
When the blade touched the skin around the wound, the moment was tense and quiet. Lando clenched his teeth, muscles stiffening under Oscar’s careful touch. Silence filled with heavy breaths and wet sounds of metal meeting resistance in flesh.
Oscar located the bullet. It wasn’t as deep as he feared.
With surprising skill — and a dash of restrained fury — he extracted the small metal projectile and tossed it into a nearby bowl, the metallic clink ringing like a verdict.
Lando gasped, his body finally relaxing. Some blood still trickled out, but no longer in excess. Oscar reapplied pressure with a fresh cloth.
— Done. Still alive, — he said, dropping the utensils to the floor.
— You’re good at this, — Lando whispered, voice thick but seductive. — Makes me wonder what else you’re good at… when you want to be.
Oscar stood abruptly, stepping back a few paces.
That was it. The line he couldn’t cross.
But Lando, even wounded, had already baited the hook.
Oscar walked to the window, cracked it open slightly, letting the cold night air calm him. He hated to admit it, but he was shaken. And not by the blood.
It was Lando’s gaze. The way he said his name. Like he had known him for years.
And then something struck like lightning.
He picked up the bowl where the bullet lay. Studied the small engraving etched into the projectile.
It wasn’t from a common weapon.
It was restricted. Gang-related. Military. Mafia.
Oscar’s stomach turned.
— Who the hell are you... — he muttered to himself.
And behind him, from the couch, Lando replied — soft, charming, dangerous:
— Someone who’s going to change your life, Oscar. And maybe… turn it upside down.